1989: a story of two misfit kids from mid-west america making it big in the big apple. and in the true sense of the american dream they find themselves in a life of sex, money, drugs, and a little rock n roll too.
warnings: adult content, mature rea...
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September 1993
Bill was woken up with Echo's foot wiggling and digging into the side of his face the next morning. She was sitting against the headboard when his eyes narrowly peeped open. He didn't exactly know when he had fallen asleep; he just watched mind-numbing TV until his eyes could no longer stay open. Alma had woken at a point in the night and took the remote control out of his loose grip while he slept to turn the TV off and swiftly went back to sleep. He was still tired. Instead of choosing to rise and be present with his daughter, he tugged her foot, pulling her down to lie, but he hadn't realized that her hand had a grip on Alma's hair. In the action, Echo inadvertently tugged her mother's hair harshly.
Alma sucked air through her teeth, and her hand reached for the sore patch on her scalp. She squeezed her eyes tightly when the memory of Craig violently pulling her by the hair came to her. She took a deep, shaky breath, then grumbled in her sleep from being woken abruptly. As she began to shift her body, she was suddenly reminded of her period. She could feel the flow wanting to creep farther back than what the long nighttime pad could contain and stilled. Huffing in irritation, she turned her head. Echo was awake, playing with her father's ear while he snuggled her in his arms, still asleep.
After a piping hot shower to help relieve her cramping, she reentered the room in just a long band tee and comfy granny panties. The room was empty, only momentarily, when Echo came running to her legs once Bill opened the door holding plates of complimentary continental breakfast from the hotel. He was in a simple black sweat set after having slept in black boxer briefs.
Alma planted kisses on her daughter's cheek as she giggled in her little princess nightgown. She still had messy bed hair, so Alma smoothed it down, but it wasn't much help. Bill kicked off his Adidas sandals by the door and situated the plates he, was once balancing along his long arm, on the unmade bed.
"Feeling okay?" he asked caressing Alma's cheek after kissing her good morning. It was very early—hardly 7 a.m.
"Eh," she grimaced. "I was about to take some ibuprofen."
"I'll grab it." He then gestured to the food so that she would eat.
He brought back a hodgepodge of breakfast foods from the lobby. Overripe fruits, watery scrambled eggs, paper-thin bacon, sausage links, and plain bagels that were warm to the touch as if they were toasted but yet still oddly pale. It may not have been the best breakfast they ever had or could even make themselves, but it would suffice. Echo was given the best plate, a waffle Bill took the time to make at the waffle station. Warm and crispy, buttered and drizzled with syrup, and topped with a dollop of whipped cream.
After fiddling with the in-room coffee maker to start brewing, Bill approached Alma, who was holding a bagel, and put three tablets in her hand, which she dry swallowed. He couldn't dry-swallow pills like she could; it made him gag any time he tried. He pulled his pockets inside out, produced packets of jam and cream cheese, and sprinkled them on the bed.
